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Among the many, many, many actions President Donald Trump took in his first week to curtail clean energy and climate policy in the U.S., he issued an order freezing all wind farm approvals. It’s anyone’s guess what happens next. On the one hand, we know the president hates wind energy — as he reiterated during his first post-inauguration interview on Fox News last week: “We don’t want windmills in this country.” But the posture is also at odds with Trump’s declaration of a national energy emergency and vision for “energy dominance.” Plus, it’s Trump. There’s a non-zero chance he’ll change his mind.
But let’s assume the wind leasing and permitting freeze stays in place for the next four years. Trump also plans to “conduct a comprehensive review of the ecological, economic, and environmental necessity of terminating or amending” existing leases, which could upheave projects already under construction or built. How do we make sense of what this all means for climate change?
First let’s look at what’s in the pipeline: If the pause on new leases and permits for offshore wind remains in place for the next four years, but all pre-approved projects get built, the U.S. could have about 13 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2030.
Three operating offshore wind projects currently send 174 megawatts of power to the U.S. grid. There are four projects under construction up and down the Atlantic, which are expected to generate about 5,021 megawatts once completed. Seven additional projects have all of their federal permits, and if built, could generate 7,730 megawatts. That’s a bigger “if” for some than others — three of the projects have not yet found anyone to buy their power.
13 gigawatts falls far short of a goal that the Biden administration set at the beginning of his presidency to deploy 30 gigawatts by 2030. But it was already becoming clear that the U.S. was going to miss that target. Last summer, the American Clean Power Association, which represents the offshore wind industry, projected that we were on track for about 14 gigawatts by that year, with 30 gigawatts achievable by 2033 and 40 gigawatts by 2035.
Cutting emissions sooner is, of course, better than later, but this doesn’t necessarily veer us off course for the longer-term goal of reaching net-zero emissions by 2050, either. One of the most comprehensive looks at how to decarbonize the grid is Princeton University’s Net Zero America report from 2021 (co-led by Jesse Jenkins, a co-host of Heatmap’s Shift Key podcast). The study models the economic development of carbon-free energy systems under a number of different scenarios in which energy demand grows more or less, and where renewable development is more or less constrained. Across all of them, offshore wind makes up less than 1% of the power system by 2030, with between 5 and 10 gigawatts deployed — numbers that may still be achievable. It then grows to between 1% and 7% of the system in 2050, with anywhere from 30 to 460 gigawatts deployed.
While the national picture looks okay, it’s a much bigger deal regionally. For population centers on the East Coast, which don’t have enough available land to build the onshore wind or solar resources necessary to decarbonize, offshore wind is a linchpin. When modelers try to decarbonize states like New York or New Jersey without offshore wind, they end up with lots of transmission capacity to deliver clean power from wind and solar farms all the way in the Midwest — a prospect that’s no less, and potentially much more politically fraught than offshore wind development. Unless other clean energy sources like nuclear or geothermal power become cheap and abundant, there’s no clear alternative path for a place like New York City to get to zero emissions.
State goals also become nearly impossible if no additional projects are able to get through the permitting process until at least 2029. New York State, for example, plans to deploy 9 gigawatts of offshore wind by 2035 so that it can achieve a carbon-free grid by 2040. It currently has just 1.8 gigawatts in the pipeline, with the potential for another 1.2 if Empire Wind 2 bids into the state’s next solicitation. Maryland’s goal is 8.5 gigawatts by 2031. It has just 1 gigawatt on the way. Massachusetts aims to procure 5.6 gigawatts by 2027. It has contracts for 3.4 gigawatts, but less than half are fully permitted.
Yet another way to think about the emissions consequences of this permitting pause is in terms of opportunity cost — the projects that will be delayed, assuming it lasts four years, and the lease areas that will go unsold.
The Biden administration held several offshore wind lease sales, and currently executed leases have the potential to generate more than 36 gigawatts, according to project development documents filed with the Bureau of Ocean Energy Management and federal estimates. But the projects planned for these lease areas are in various stages of development, and some of them, like plans for floating offshore turbines in California and Maine, have many technological hurdles to solve. A four-year pause will affect those far less than the 16 gigawatts’ worth of projects that have already started the federal permitting process.
The unsold areas represent a much bigger loss. The clean energy think tank Energy Innovation found that the U.S. has potential to build more than 1,000 gigawatts of “highly productive” offshore wind projects, meaning the wind is strong and constant enough to keep the turbines spinning more than half the time. We’ve leased less than 1% of that.
But by another measure, the opportunity cost for offshore wind might not be significant considering the trajectory we’ve been on. Every year the Rhodium Group, a clean energy research firm, models expected future technology deployment and its emissions implications based on existing policies and market conditions. The group’s 2024 report found that wind energy as a whole would reach 20% to 25% of U.S. electricity generation by 2035. Those estimates include just 9 gigawatts to 12 gigawatts of offshore wind, with the vast majority from onshore installations.
That brings us to the implications of pausing onshore wind development, which are arguably worse.
To date, the U.S. has installed about 152 gigawatts’ worth of land-based wind farms. Under the Net Zero America scenarios, that number should more than double by 2030. But deployment has slowed in recent years. The U.S. added just 6.4 gigawatts to the grid in 2023, down from 14.2 in 2020. While the 2024 totals haven’t been published, we were on track to add 7.1 gigawatts last year. We’d have to add more than three times that every year, starting this year, to meet the Net Zero America study’s 2030 projections.
Onshore wind deployment has been held back, in part, by transmission constraints. If the new administration clears hurdles to building more power lines, it could help speed things up. Also, since many onshore wind projects are built on private land, Trump’s order won’t have the same sweeping effect that it will offshore. But as my colleague Jael Holzman reported, the impact could still be far-reaching. More than half of all wind projects under development may be affected by the pause, as many are so tall that they need approvals from the Federal Aviation Administration. Energy-hungry projects like data centers may end up turning to natural gas, instead.
Trump’s executive order labels the pause of leasing and permitting as “temporary,” so all of this is still hypothetical. Perhaps a bigger existential threat to the industry would be if Congress decided to cut the tax credits for wind energy or wind them down earlier than currently planned to pay for the continuation of Trump’s 2017 tax cuts, many of which expire this year. But since the tax credits are now pooled together with other energy sources that Republicans support, like nuclear and geothermal, under "technology neutral” credits, that would be a lot harder to do.
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Cement, plywood, and some electronic equipment will face 50% levies. But the real cost is much higher.
Here we go again. The United States will impose new 50% tariffs on a slew of imports from Canada, the White House announced on Monday afternoon. The trade levies — which will hit more than 500 categories of goods, from anoraks, beer, and curtains, to yarn, wool, and whey protein — will take effect in 30 days.
The new tariffs don’t seem to be wildfire-related. President Trump threatened to impose new tariffs last week after smoke from Canadian wildfires drifted south over the northern U.S. border, but administration officials have claimed to CNN that these new levies were already in motion by then.
Even so, a few aspects of the announcement stand out. Most important, at least from a generalist perspective, is the legal mechanism that President Trump is using to apply them: Section 338 of the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act. This passage, which has never been used by a previous president to levy tariffs, allows the United States to tax trade from countries that the president says have “discriminated against” U.S. commerce.
Significant, too, is the fact the White House asserts this new kind of tariff could apply to any kind of product — even those that would normally be covered by the North American free trade pact, the U.S.-Mexico-Canada Agreement. So far, the “Big Three” automakers — whose supply chains cross the Mexican or Canadian borders half a dozen times before a car is finally assembled — have avoided major tariff danger because auto parts and other inputs fall under the USMCA’s auspices. If the White House now thinks it can levy taxes despite that pact, then the risks for Ford, General Motors, and their suppliers have increased.
Energy and critical minerals are exempt from the new tariffs, so Canadian crude oil, gasoline, diesel, natural gas, and electricity will presumably keep flowing into the United States. (That explicit carve-out might be ominous in its own right, because energy had been protected by USMCA so far, too.) By omitting energy, Trump and his officials may be calculating they can avoid major inflationary hazards from this round of tariffs.
Who knows. In any case, to my eye, these tariffs do seem like they could aggravate construction costs and possibly contribute to wider U.S. inflation. There’s already some evidence that data centers are driving a new wave of inflation, for instance, by hiking construction input and labor costs. Yet data centers use a lot of cement — and cement will now face a 50% tariff under the new regime. So too will plywood, plaster, and paperboard, as well as industrial cooling equipment, chemicals, and some circuit boards.
I could keep listing the potential economic costs here — I could point out that overall inflation risk is rising or that average U.S. gas prices rose to $4 a gallon today on the Iran war news — but I think it’s important to look at least one step beyond the hits to commerce alone.
I mentioned earlier that these tariffs are meant to punish “discrimination.” In this case, some of the “discrimination” appears to be what some Canadian provinces did to retaliate against the president’s earlier tariffs. The state-owned liquor stores in Quebec and Ontario, for instance, stopped buying U.S.-made booze after Trump slapped 25% tariffs on Canada in March 2025; those boycotts are mentioned by name in today’s proclamation. Canada, you see, is not supposed to respond to Trump’s tariffs. It is just supposed to take it — just like it’s supposed to take the constant stream of falsehoods, abuse, belittling, and invasion threat.
Over the past few years, politicians and pundits have learned to respond to Trump’s policies by appealing to U.S. self-interest — by explaining how the president’s policies are making Americans poorer. It is a sensible strategy for a morally denuded era. A recent statement from Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer about Canada, for example, criticized the president for hurting “our closest ally and partner … right when summer tourism season is arriving.” I get the move here — and I think, in some sense, Schumer is trying to avoid polarizing Trump’s treatment of Canada along partisan lines — but Canadians are more than their tourism dollars.
For the past several years, Trump has threatened to strip Canada of its sovereignty and its dignity. He has treated what was once a deep and secure relationship as something to be bartered and mined and dissipated. It is a mucilaginous approach to statecraft, and as recent reporting has made clear, its long-term costs will exceed any simple accounting. We Americans have been robbed of an honorable friendship. Some losses cannot be counted in dollars.
In seven years of owning an electric car, I’ve done practically no maintenance. My 2019 Tesla Model 3 has gotten a new set of tires and windshield wipers, but because an EV doesn’t require oil changes or many of the other occasional chores that come with gas cars, that’s about it.
The one thing I have had to fix is the battery, and no, I don’t mean the big one that makes the car go.
Twice in those seven years, I’ve replaced the car’s 12-volt battery. This is the toolbox-sized unit that’s familiar to millions — it’s what the phrase “car battery” used to mean back before electric vehicles. Lots of new or aspiring EV drivers may not even realize their car has a second, smaller battery borrowed from combustion days. But this crucial holdover — the most recycled object on the planet, by the way, at a rate of more than 100 million annually — has already been a source of annoyance for EV engineers and drivers.
The reason behind the weird setup is straightforward. Despite the fact that EVs are effectively giant batteries on wheels, they need a backup source to operate the power windows and doors. If you’re in a car accident that disables the main battery, for instance, you need power to the doors to escape, and also a way to disconnect the high-voltage battery. Thus, the old-fashioned 12-volt battery squirreled away deep inside the car to protect it during collisions.
It’s not just a matter of backup power, either. A large, high-voltage battery would have to step down its electrical output for applications other than pushing a car down the road; it’s simpler to power them with a 12-volt battery and use the big unit to recharge the smaller one. After all, legacy carmakers have decades of experience building this kind of electrical system for gasoline-powered cars. Some EVs also use the 12-volt setup to disconnect the high-voltage power supply when the car is simply parked for a long time.
All this makes solid engineering sense. It also means that a sleek, modern EV is reliant upon the clunky car battery of yesteryear. Some drivers, including those in new Kia EVs, have said they can’t drive their cars even though there’s plenty of juice in the big unit because something went wrong with the 12-volt. As one Reddit commenter wrote: “It seems absurd to design a car that can run out of electrons and not be able to start while it is carrying 70 kWh of energy in a giant battery.” Yet that’s exactly the reality.
There are a few reasons why. As InsideEVs has noted, the rugged old 12-volt keeps getting more and more responsibility. Nowadays, the constant cellular connectivity of modem EVs — as well as features that can be used while the car is parked, such as security systems that tap into the vehicle’s exterior cameras to monitor the surrounding area — can cause a continuous drain on the 12-volt battery. That requires the car’s big battery to “wake up” and recharge the smaller one, which not only bleeds the vehicle’s driving range while it’s sitting still but also causes lots of recharging cycles for the 12-volt, prematurely aging the small battery.
Rivian had notorious problems from this issue for the older R1T and R1S and had to engineer a fix. Hyundais and Kias, meanwhile, have had longstanding issues with their Integrated Charging Control Unit, the system that recharges the 12-volt battery, that have caused a variety of recalls and headaches widely documented in online posts and videos. Chevy and Toyota have endured their own growing pains trying to make a low-voltage electrical system work well inside an EV.
But the car companies are getting smarter. Rather than duplicating what works in gas cars, more of them are building EV-specific systems with this application in mind. For example, the 12-volt in an EV doesn’t need to provide the big single burst needed to start up a gas engine, but it does need to be able to survive being subjected to more recharging cycles. In other words, it’s not that using these batteries in modern EVs is a bad idea — we just need to be smarter about how.
Perhaps EV builders one day will engineer away the old battery. Rivian, for one, has filed a patent for an electrical architecture that would work without a low-voltage battery at all. But those workarounds are a long way out. For now, even the most futuristic-feeling electric cars are stuck with the same kind of battery your dad had to jump-start in the church parking lot that time you left the AC on and the engine wasn’t running. My big, high-voltage battery might keep running forever, even as its capacity continues to diminish. But inevitably, I’ll need another small, dumb battery when this one goes kaput.
GOP lawmakers know climate change is real. But they lack political incentives to do anything about it.
The New York Times recently profiled former Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist and his increasing engagement on climate change. Many of the online comments accused him of hypocrisy. Why, they asked, did he only become concerned about climate change after leaving Congress?
It’s an understandable question.
I have spent the better part of a decade discussing climate change with Republican members of Congress and can see a frequently overlooked part of the answer. During my hundreds of one-on-one conversations with Republican senators and representatives, almost none of them deny that climate change is occurring. Most understand the science well enough, and many acknowledge privately that it presents serious long-term risks.
They don’t lack knowledge. They lack political incentives.
Members of Congress have finite political capital. Every day they must decide which issues deserve their attention. Naturally, they devote their time to the issues that voters, donors, activists, staff, and party leaders tell them matter most.
Politics is a marketplace of incentives. For decades, climate advocates have devoted their efforts to changing Republicans’ minds, but have devoted little effort to changing the incentives for Republicans to act.
The political ecosystem for Democrats could not be more different. Democrats are surrounded by organizations that continually reinforce the importance of climate policy. Environmental groups, philanthropies, labor organizations, advocacy organizations, academics, campaign donors, think tanks, and congressional staff all create an environment in which climate engagement is expected and rewarded.
Republicans experience almost none of that.
When I was quoted in the New York Times article, I described the “eco right” as “a lonely place.” I meant it literally. There are remarkably few conservative organizations whose primary mission is helping Republican elected officials develop serious climate policy. Few donors make climate engagement a condition of support. Few advocacy groups reward constructive leadership. Few congressional staff have access to a deep bench of conservative climate experts. Climate is far more often presented as a political liability than a leadership opportunity.
In that environment, addressing climate change is rarely a priority. This largely explains what puzzles many observers — that Republican leaders often become noticeably more outspoken about addressing climate change after leaving office. The science has not changed. Their incentives have.
Freed from primary elections, fundraising pressures, and the constant competition for legislative attention, they’re able to think about problems whose consequences unfold over decades instead of election cycles.
That observation leads to an uncomfortable conclusion for those of us who want stronger climate policy: Persuading Republicans that climate change is real is not just unnecessary, it’s unproductive. They know it’s real. The more important task is building the institutions that make climate engagement a priority. That means investing in conservative policy organizations, developing Republican congressional staff expertise, supporting Republican governors and state legislators, encouraging business leaders to engage, creating donor networks that reward constructive center-right leadership, and giving Republican members credible partners they can trust.
In other words, we need to make the eco-right a much less lonely place.
Building institutions requires capital, both political and financial. Today, the overwhelming majority of climate-related political spending — whether by advocacy organizations, political action committees, or philanthropically supported campaigns — flows to Democratic candidates and causes. It’s understandable. Democrats have generally been more supportive of climate action, and donors naturally want to reward those who stand with them.
But rewarding allies isn’t the same as expanding the number of them.
If the objective is durable climate policy rather than simply electing more Democrats, then the current allocation of political spending deserves reconsideration. Congress writes laws, and lasting legislation almost always requires bipartisan support. A movement that invests overwhelmingly in one party shouldn’t be surprised when the other party lacks champions, expertise, and political incentives.
Climate philanthropists, advocacy organizations, and political action committees should explicitly seek to create Republican allies by committing a more significant portion of their electoral spending to Republican candidates. This support would send a powerful signal throughout Republican politics that constructive engagement on climate change will be rewarded. More Republican candidates would respond to those incentives, and the universe of viable partners would expand.
For Republicans, the greatest opportunity lies in primary elections. While general elections determine which party governs, primaries determine what kind of Republicans and Democrats will govern. Donors should identify Republican candidates who are willing to engage on a variety of climate-related topics — from adaptation and resilience to market-based policies that reduce emissions to energy innovation — and help them succeed. The objective isn’t ideological purity. It’s to demonstrate that constructive climate leadership is politically viable within today’s Republican Party, and to give those candidates the confidence that they aren’t alone.
Over time, this approach would accomplish something today’s funding model cannot. Rather than simply rewarding an existing coalition, it would create a larger one. It would produce more Republican members who see climate engagement as compatible with conservative principles. Climate change would still be a scientific and economic challenge, but politics would no longer preclude addressing it.
Rather than increasingly evident climate change adding to political division, it could drive both parties to act. America’s biggest policy achievements have generally occurred when a president elevated an issue as a national priority and Congress responded. Tax reform, welfare reform, civil rights, and other major agreements all required presidential leadership before they produced durable bipartisan legislation.
Climate policy has not yet reached that level. While voters increasingly care about it, it does not determine presidential elections or dominate governing agendas.
The closest climate change has come to being a top-tier issue was when President George H.W. Bush signed the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change in 1992, but that was before addressing climate change became so partisan. More recently, President Joe Biden included clean energy tax credits in the Inflation Reduction Act. That modest success is noteworthy in part because it rode upon legislation to address inflation, a top-tier voter issue — and because the provisions were largely repealed less than three years later. Until climate change becomes a presidential-level issue — one that candidates in both parties believe they must address — Congress is unlikely to devote sustained attention to it.
That day will come. And when that moment arrives, the quality of the legislation will depend on the work being done now. If we want bipartisan climate policy tomorrow, we need to build bipartisan political capacity today.
The climate movement has spent decades rewarding allies. The next several decades should be spent adding more. Politics follows incentives more than information. If we want Republicans to lead on addressing climate change or at least become those allies, we must stop just trying to persuade them and start investing in the institutions, incentives, and people that make it possible.